Blind Dreams
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Stan has a nightmare. Which is pretty commonplace for both boys, but it's a little different from the norm because-well, you'll see if you read it. Sea Grunks fic. Has allusions to graphic violence but nothing too explicit. Also references the AU "Blind Faith" by pinesinthewoods.


Stan was having another nightmare.

This was a fairly common occurrence for both siblings, sadly. It had lessened a little during the last year, but they still had some occasional bad nights. Like, it appeared, this one was going to be.

Ford saw with concern that this nightmare looked like it was particularly bad; Stan was starting to thrash, and clawing at the air, muttering something along the lines of "No! Ford-stop-don't-Ford-"

In seconds Ford was leaning over his brother's bunk, saying in a soft yet pervading voice, "Stanley. Stanley, wake up."

He had to repeat a rendition of this a few times, raising his voice when Stan's own voice began to rise, becoming absolutely frantic. "_Ford! No!_"

"Stanley, wake up!"

Stan's eyes flew open, settling at once on Ford's face-and then, without any kind of warning, his fist lashed out and socked him in the jaw.

"Gah!" Ford landed flat on his back on the floor of the boat.

A few seconds later, while he tried to make his ears stop ringing, Stan was pulling himself up and calling anxiously, "F-Ford? You okay? I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!"

"...Is this revenge for me punching you when I came through the portal?" Ford asked dazedly.

Stan groped around for his glasses and slid them onto his nose. "No, I just-" He grimaced. "Just a bad dream."

_Well, obviously._

* * *

Ford sat up, rubbing his jaw. There was going to be a bruise there, he could tell.

"Hold on, I'll get ya some ice." Stan sat up, shoving his feet into the fluffy blue slippers he insisted on keeping (getting old had made him care more about physical comfort than compromising his masculinity when it came to things like his feet), as if he hadn't just woken up from what sounded like one of his more intense nightmares.

"I'm fi-"

But Stan was already at the fridge, pulling out one of their ice packs. He returned to Ford's side and pushed it into his hand. Ford got up and dutifully placed it against the sore spot.

"Care to talk about it?"

Stan shrugged. "It-it was stupid."

Ford Looked at him (much more severe than just 'looking' at him). "If my nightmares aren't stupid, yours aren't either."

"No, seriously, Sixer-" even if that nickname dredged up bad memories sometimes, it had been theirs first, and Ford had stubbornly decided that he wasn't going to let Bill ruin it for them- "this one's not-"

"Tell me. Please."

Stan bit his lip, and gulped a little. Ford was just about to amend that he didn't have to talk about it if it was too personal, when he admitted, "You...you were attacking me."

Ford blinked; of all possibilities available, he hadn't been expecting that.

"Yeah," Stan said, noticing his expression, "you were pinning me down and blinding me by shoving fire in my eyes, I think. And you kept yelling over and over, 'You can't see!' and-and I could almost _feel_ it." Inadvertently his hand rose up and ran itself over the edges of his eyes. "I don't even know where that came from. Must be something screwy upstairs." The hand moved to the side of his head and knocked on it.

"Or maybe your subconscious mind still doesn't trust me on some level, or you feel like you're not in control of your own life," Ford suggested, thinking about what he'd read about dream interpretation, even through his discomfort at the mental image his mind was producing.

"Thanks, Dr. Freud." Stan sat down on the side of his bed, clearly trying to turn this whole thing into a big joke.

Ford glared at him. "You know many of Freud's theories are no longer considered fundamentally sound."

"Whatever." Stan kicked off his slippers, clearly about to tuck himself back into bed. "Told you it was-"

"It was not stupid," Ford said firmly, sitting down next to him. He swallowed a little. "...You know I wouldn't do something like that to you, right?"

"Not unless you had a really good reason," Stan pointed out. "But I'd like it if ya didn't anytime soon, 'kay? I'm using my eyes, I don't want you putting them out."

"_Stanley_."

Stan sighed, and squeezed his brother's arm. "Stop overthinking it. Nightmares are weird, end of story. I know you. You're probably not gonna try ta burn my eyes anytime soon unless you're possessed or go crazy or something _really_ weird happens. I trust you."

Ford managed a weak smile. And hoped that his brother hadn't suddenly started having premonitions of the future or something.

* * *

**Who, me, writing a fanfic based on someone else's fanfic?**

**What're you talking about?**

**Just to be clear, I'm not planning on writing a follow-up where Ford has to put Stan's eyes out. Sorry, but that's too much, even for me.**


End file.
